


Henry's Terrible Tuesday

by tinknevertalks



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood Loss, Bullying, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 01:18:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17971733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinknevertalks/pseuds/tinknevertalks
Summary: Henry hates school on a Tuesday.





	Henry's Terrible Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Over on Tumblr, QueenoftheValkyrie asked for, "bloody nose hopefully featuring Lil Kid!Henry?" He's not a little kid in this, but I hope this works for you. :)
> 
> Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are my own (lemme know if you catch any). Otherwise, just leave me a comment letting me know if you enjoyed (as much as one can enjoy a fic like this).

Henry didn’t like Tuesdays. Tuesdays meant a morning of English and Spanish lessons, early lunch (which wasn’t too bad - he could hide in the computer lab), then double physics and maths. When the last bell rung, he made himself scarce. Jimmy Wesson had decided that Henry was the perfect punch bag, and Jimmy had boxing practice on a Tuesday.

Henry was quickly running out of excuses for the bruises he’d wake up with on a Wednesday. Helen was a bit wrapped up with… well, everything, but she still noticed his split lip and how he’d started wearing holey t-shirts. She didn’t say anything though, just looked at him sadly across the breakfast table, which was probably worse than her saying anything if he was honest with himself. She’d wince when he’d wince, his face aching as he tried to eat his bacon. He wouldn’t touch the toast - too crunchy.

But he had to get through today. Maybe he’d be lucky - maybe Jimmy’d be off school, or he’d be held up and Henry could get home before he could catch him up… Maybe one of the teachers--

“Three o’clock, freakazoid.”

Henry’s blood ran cold. Jimmy had the type of voice that made badly tuned guitars sound good, sneering and just this side of breaking. The twang made Henry shiver. The clap to his back didn't help, sending him face first into his locker. Hearing the bell, he thunked his head against the metal door before opening it and grabbing his books. 

So Jimmy was here. That was not ok, but Henry knew he couldn't skip. Helen would kill him, stop his allowance, and make him clean the sabertooth chinchilla cages. And the chinchillas were bitey this time of year. No, Henry knew he had to be brave and face the day, and pray Jimmy got after school detention.

The day itself was a bad toffee day - big globs of good with long, stretched out moments of bad. Henry had to read Mercutio's part in English, then conjugate a whole bunch of Spanish words, but the canteen had the awesome cookies in and he got two (as well as the pasta bake thing with the bacon bits). Then up to Mr Morgan's classroom to hide for the rest of the lunch hour. That wasn't so bad either - Mr Morgan had a challenge each week, to do with whatever subject came to his mind over the weekend, and so far Henry hadn't missed one.

Double physics was a breeze. They were learning about electricity, the difference between alternate and direct current, and slowly heading towards magnets. Henry liked magnets. And Jay was in his class, and she was cool… And kinda pretty.

It was as he walked to his math lesson he felt his own walking speed slow to an amble. He really didn’t want to go to math. He hadn’t wanted physics to end (Jay had smiled at him when they were taking notes from the projector). His stomach clenched. Maybe he could text Helen? Ask her to pick him up early from school?

He tossed that idea almost as quickly as he got it - she’d just tell him to wait out the last lesson, or that she was in the middle of something with the restagrophus, or worse, he just wouldn’t get through to her. The door to the math room loomed. Mrs Purvis kept it open for the first five minutes. You get there after the door closed, you were tardy. Unfortunately, the door was open and Henry could see Jimmy was still there. Still a skulking, greasy fuzzball, leaning his chair backwards. Helen had warned Henry often about the dangers of doing that, but obviously no-one had warned Jimmy. Just as Henry crossed the threshold of the room, Jimmy fell with a clatter to the floor.

He couldn’t help it. Henry laughed. Not a big laugh, but a coughing chortle. It was enough though. Mrs Purvis told him to sit down quickly and not laugh at the misfortune of others, whilst Jimmy glared at him. He gulped, taking his seat at the front of the class.

Bloody hell.

He kept his head down, praying Jimmy would get held up at the end of the lesson. Opening his book, he wrote down the equations, dreading the three o’clock bell. Time turned to toffee again. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket but knew Mrs Purvis would just take the phone and refuse to give it back until the battery died (he wasn’t a hundred percent sure she understood rechargeable batteries), even though school rules said he’d get it back at the end of the day. So he couldn’t distract himself with reading whatever text he’d been sent.

The bell rang.

Mrs Purvis droned on, ignoring everyone’s glancing to the door, the jiggling of impatient legs, the sly zippings of pencil cases. “Homework is to finish the equations, by tomorrow. Off you go.” The chair screechings as everyone dashed for the door was almost deafening, but Henry didn’t care - he was out the door faster than The Flash. Avoiding his locker, he went straight for the doors, moving with the crowd towards the sunny afternoon. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get lucky.

The air outside was fresh, and clean, and made Henry smile as he breathed in the scent of flowers and cars. Turning left, he smiled a goodbye to Mike before starting his walk home. Off the school grounds, he’d just taken his phone out of his pocket when a hand descended on his shoulder, stopping and spinning him round. He didn’t even have a chance to react, the fist connecting with his cheek before he could ask, “What?”

Then came another.

And another.

On the periphery of his awareness, Henry knew someone was holding him upright, keeping him level for the blows Jimmy landed on him, but he couldn’t say who. And he couldn’t say what stopped them, made his captor drop him like a doll, or made them run so fast. All he knew was that his face hurt, his nose was streaming blood, and they’d stopped.

“Henry? Henry, darling?”

There was only one person who called him, “Henry, darling,” but she couldn’t be here. She never met him part way home. And the voice was too panicky, too motherly, too full of emotion.

It hurt to cry, and it hurt even more when he felt arms wrap around him, cool fingers deftly checking his face, his ribs, the calming British tones he’d not heard since he became a teenager whispering susurrant sounds. It hurt when he realised she was here, but hadn’t yelled at them, or threatened them. It hurt to dig his fingers into her arms, to cling to her like a child.

“Let’s get you home, darling, and you can tell me everything.”


End file.
